A breath held for a

Phil is the size of a fingernail, though if you asked his friends, they’d say he was tall. He moves with a gentle gait through the water, never causing more than a stir of grass to his side. He likes to lie atop the carpet of moss, staring up into dappled light, where the great lily pads float and form patterns and pictures. It takes a little imagination; mostly they look like lily pads.Once, a boy fell from the sky. Sand jumped back where the body crumpled, and the fog of algae flurried. A snail passed, indifferent, and the mare’s tail and milfoils curtained around him. Phil waited, determined not to blink. He advanced slowly, and when his toes pressed into the freshly settled sand, he saw the set of wings, folded, and draining of colour, against the boy’s spine.